everyone else’s girl

and

"They’re not saying I’m unlovable. They’re saying they can’t give me what I need right now."

"This doesn’t mean I have to leave. It means I need to find a different way to get what I need."

"I can survive this feeling. It’s real, but it’s not permanent."

"I’ve been here before. It felt like the end of the world, but it wasn’t."

"This really hurts, but I don’t want to lash out. I’m going to step away for a bit."

"I’m scared of making this worse, so I’m going to calm down before responding."

"My first instinct is to assume the worst, but I don’t want to do that. I’m going to sit with this before deciding how I feel."

"I feel like I’m being rejected right now, and my first instinct is to panic, but I’m trying to sit with the feeling instead."

"This really hurts, and my brain is telling me it means something worse than it does. I’m trying to remind myself that it’s just a feeling."

"I feel like shutting down or running away, but I know that won’t actually help."

"My emotions are really loud right now, but I know reacting in the moment might make things worse. I just need to take a second to breathe."

"I want to assume the worst, but I know my emotions are making this feel bigger than it is. I’m working on calming down before responding."

"Just because they’re not giving me what I need right now doesn’t mean they don’t care about me."

"This isn’t proof that I’m unwanted. It’s just a situation that feels bad, and feelings aren’t facts."

"I am not actually being abandoned. My brain is making this feel like a bigger threat than it is."

"They might be unavailable right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m losing them forever."

"I wrote a eulogy for my best friend last week. Then I read it to him. At the pub. On a Tuesday."

He was alive, holding a pint, looking at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I have.

I'm Mick. I'm 70. The man across the table was Barry. Seventy-two. Best mate for 46 years. Met on a building site in 1979. He dropped a plank on my foot. I called him something unrepeatable. He bought me a pint after the shift. Haven't gone a week without talking since.

Three months ago we went to a funeral. Bloke we'd worked with. Cancer. The eulogies were beautiful - people saying what he meant to them, things they'd clearly never said to his face. And all I could think was, he can't hear any of this.

Every beautiful sentence. Every "he changed my life." Said to a room of crying people and a box of wood.

I turned to Barry. Whispered, "What a waste."

Drove home. Couldn't sleep. Because I realised, if Barry died tomorrow, I'd stand up and say extraordinary things about this man. Things I've never said in 46 years. And he'd be in the box, missing all of it.

So I wrote them down. Took a week. Harder than expected - not finding the words, but admitting I had them.

Rang him. "Tuesday. The Crown. Need to read you something."

"Have you joined a book club?"

"Just come."

Same corner table. Pint of bitter. Crisps. I pulled out the paper. He saw my hands shake.

"Mick. What's this?"

"Your eulogy. I'm reading it now because I'm not wasting it on a day you can't hear it."

"Have you gone mad?"

"Probably. Shut up and listen."

I read it. In a pub. To a man very much alive and very much uncomfortable.

I told him about the plank and how it was the best injury of my life. About the night he drove forty minutes in rain to help change a tyre. About how he rang every day for three months after my divorce and never once asked "Are you alright?" - just talked about football and weather, because he knew I didn't need a question. I needed a voice.

I told him he was the funniest man I'd ever known and his jokes were terrible and both things were true. That he'd been a better father than he thinks. That his wife's a saint and he knows it. That I'd have been a worse man without him.

He didn't look at me. Stared at his pint. Jaw tight. Doing that thing men do when the feelings arrive and they'd rather swallow glass than show it.

When I finished, long silence. Then he picked up his pint, took a sip, and said,

"You're paying for the next round. And the one after."

That was his answer. Perfect. Because Barry doesn't say "I love you too." He says "you're buying."

But in the car park, he hugged me. Not the quick back-pat. A real one. Thirty seconds. Neither let go first.

And he said quietly into my shoulder, "Don't read that again at the real one. I want new material."

Who would you write a eulogy for - while they're still here?

Don't wait. The flowers can't hear. The box doesn't laugh. Say it now. At the pub. Over a bad cup of tea. You'll feel ridiculous.

They'll look uncomfortable. It'll be the most important thing you've ever done.

Read them the speech while they can still hug you in the car park.”

Anastasia Trusova — “Through The Walls”, 2020

“I read something that stuck with me about mourning an empty grave. It’s basically saying that some people will never truly get to know you because they refuse to accept you as you are. Instead, they stick with some idealized version of you who they can control and act like it’s a personal attack when you stand up for yourself.” 🖋️✨📖